Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

A blushing schoolgirl. That’s what she became around the prince, no matter the fact that they’d been sharing a bed these weeks, or what he’d promised for their future.

To rule beside him. As the future empress of the khaganate.

It was absurd, of course. The idea of her dressed like his mother, in those sweeping, beautiful robes and grand headdresses … No, she was better suited to the rukhin leathers, to the weight of steel, not jewels. She’d said as much to Sartaq. Many times.

He’d laughed her off. Had said she might walk around the palace naked if she wished. What she wore or didn’t wear wouldn’t bother him in the least.

But it was still a ridiculous notion. One the prince seemed to think was the only course for their future. He’d staked his crown on it, had told his father that if being prince meant not being with her, then he’d walk away from the throne. The khagan had offered him the title of Heir instead.

Before they’d left, his siblings had not seemed angered by it, though they’d spent their entire lives vying to be crowned their father’s Heir. Even Hasar, who sailed with them, had refrained from her usual, sharp-tongued comments. Whether Kashin, Arghun, or Duva—all still in Antica, with Kashin promised to sail with the rest of his father’s forces—had changed their minds about Sartaq’s appointment, Nesryn didn’t know.

A flutter of activity to her right had her steering Salkhi after it.

Falkan Ennar, shape-shifter and merchant-turned-rukhin-spy, had taken a falcon’s form this morning, and wielded the creature’s remarkable speed to fly ahead. He must have seen something, for he now banked and swept past them, then soared inland again. Follow, he seemed to say.

Sailing to Terrasen was still an option, depending on what they found today along the coast. Whether Lysandra might be there, if she might still be alive, was another matter entirely.

Falkan had sworn that his fortune, his properties, would be her inheritance well before he knew that she’d survived childhood, or received his family’s gifts. A strange family from the Wastes, who’d spread across the continent, his brother ending up in Adarlan long enough to sire Lysandra and abandon her mother.

But Falkan had not spoken of those desires since they’d left the Tavan Mountains, and had instead dedicated himself to helping in whatever manner he could: scouting, mostly. But a time would soon come when they’d need his further assistance, as they had against the kharankui in the Dagul Fells.

Perhaps as vital as the army they’d brought with them was the information they’d gleaned there. That Maeve was not a Fae Queen at all, but a Valg imposter. An ancient Valg queen, who had infiltrated Doranelle at the dawn of time, ripping into the two sister-queens’ minds and convincing them that they had an elder sister.

Perhaps the knowledge would bring about nothing in this war. But it might shift it in some way. To know that another enemy lurked at their backs. And that Maeve had fled to Erilea to escape the Valg king she’d wed, brother to two others—who in turn had sundered the Wyrdkeys from the gate, and ripped through worlds to find her.

That the three Valg kings had broken into this world only to be halted here, unaware that their prey now lurked on a throne in Doranelle, had been a strange twist of fate. Only Erawan remained here of those three kings, brother to Orcus, Maeve’s husband. What would he pay to know who she truly was?

It was a question, perhaps, for others to ponder. To consider how to wield.

Falkan dropped into a swooping dive through the cloud cover, and Nesryn followed.

Cold, misty air ripped at her, but Nesryn leaned into the descent, Salkhi trailing Falkan without command. For a minute, only clouds flowed past, and then—

White cliffs rose from the gray waves, and beyond them dried grasses spread in the last of Fenharrow’s northernmost plains.

Falkan soared toward the shore, checking his speed so he didn’t lose them.

Kadara kept pace with them easily, and they flew in silence as the coast grew clearer.

The grasses on the plains weren’t winter-dried. They’d been burned. And the trees, barren of leaves, were little more than husks.

On the horizon, plumes of smoke stained the winter sky. Too many and too great to be farmers scorching the last of the crops to fertilize the soil.

Nesryn signaled to Sartaq, I’m taking a closer look.

The prince signaled back, Skim the clouds, but don’t get below them.

Nesryn nodded, and she and her ruk disappeared into the thin bottom layer of the clouds. Through occasional gaps, glimpses of the charred land flashed below.

Villages and farmsteads: gone. As if a force had swept in from the sea and razed everything in its path.

But there had been no armada camped by the shore. No, this army had been on foot.

Keeping just within the veil of clouds, Nesryn and Sartaq crossed the land.

Her heart pounded, faster and faster, with every league of seared, barren landscape they covered. No signs of an opposing army or ongoing battles.

They’d burned it for their own sick enjoyment.

Nesryn marked the land, the features she could make out. They’d indeed barely crossed over Fenharrow’s borders, Adarlan a sprawl to the north.

But inland, growing closer with each league, an army marched. It stretched for miles and miles, black and writhing.

The might of Morath. Or some terrible fraction of it, sent to instill terror and destruction before the final wave.